


what if this is all the love I'm ever shown

by biblionerd07



Category: The Exorcist (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Bullying, Character Study, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Panic Attacks, Past Child Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Esteem Issues, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2019-05-31 20:59:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15127709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biblionerd07/pseuds/biblionerd07
Summary: “You’re gonna look at other kids, other parents, and you’re gonna say,Why me? Why can’t I have their life instead?” Five times Marcus Keane wished for a different life, +1 time he didn't.





	what if this is all the love I'm ever shown

_i._

 

Marcus is five years old and has trouble sitting still. He already knows if he wiggles too much it’ll make his father mad, and making his father mad is dangerous—Marcus never knows how Dad’ll react. Sometimes it’s just a cross word, but other times it’s a slap, if he’s lucky, or the belt, if he’s not. He does his best to sit quietly, to squeeze his hands together so he doesn’t fidget and tap them on the table or reach for something he’s not allowed to touch, but it’s hard. Sitting quietly isn’t nearly as fun as moving around.

They don’t go to church often, because Sunday is when Dad doesn’t have to work and that means he comes home late on Saturdays, smelly and tripping everywhere, and he usually sleeps until late into the day. Mum usually takes Marcus out for a walk in the woods while Dad is still sleeping, so Marcus likes Sundays best.

But today is Easter, so Mum scrubs Marcus up as best she can with the cold water that makes him yelp and the three of them put on their best clothes. Marcus knows he needs to sit as still as he can during church, because if he doesn’t he’s definitely not getting just a cross word. Too many other people are at church to see him act badly, and Marcus’s parents don’t like other people looking at them. Marcus can’t draw attention. And anyway, Dad is always angry on Sundays when he has to wake up early.

Marcus does his best. He _really_ tries. But the bench is so hard, and his backside is still sore from Dad’s belt a few days ago when Marcus knocked over a full glass of milk. The priest is talking forever, and Marcus is bored of looking at the same stained-glass window, even if the picture in it is cool. God is surrounded by fire and Marcus wonders if someone threw Him in there or what. He shifts a bit, trying to get more comfortable, but he does it quietly. Mum’s eyes cut sideways, looking at him without moving her head, and Marcus shrinks into his seat. Maybe Dad didn’t notice.

The sermon goes on forever. Marcus can’t sit still this long. He swings his feet a little. It helps relieve the boredom. There’s an outburst to his left, a sharp cry from a kid about his age. Marcus looks over, bracing himself for the sharp crack of a slap. But instead, he sees the mother lean down and whisper in the little girl’s ear, stroking her hair gently. The girl heaves a sigh but nods, and the mother smiles before kissing her little girl’s cheek.

Marcus can’t believe it. If he’d dared make a noise like that in church, Dad would’ve dragged him out by his ear before he could finish the sound, and he wouldn’t have had to worry about sitting through the rest of the sermon because the whupping he’d take would leave him unable to sit at all for days. This little girl got a hug and a kiss.

Marcus crosses his arms and glares over at the picture of God in the window, hoping now that someone _did_ light him on fire. It doesn’t make any sense. It isn’t _fair_. What did Marcus do that was so bad he has to have mean parents who smack him instead of a nice mum who hugs him? He huffs. Stupid God.

Mum squeezes his leg hard. “Quiet down,” she hisses at him. Marcus squinches his eyes closed so he won’t cry. Stupid God.

 

_ii._

 

“What’s this?” The nurse says, grabbing at Marcus’s hand to yank his arm up for a better view. He cries out a little, against his will, because his hand is still sore from his fight with Davey O’Neil yesterday and his arms always hurt from the lines he marks them with. She gives him a shake hard enough to knock him off his feet and he catches himself with another whimper as pain shoots through his hand again.

“You’re not to be doing that,” she reminds him sharply. “Evil little thing, did you think you could pin it one of the other boys to start trouble?”

Marcus doesn’t bother telling her no. They never believe him. And he can never explain _why_ he does it. It isn’t to start trouble, it really isn’t, but…but he doesn’t know why it _is_. He just knows everything hurts all the time and it’s better to hurt when he can point to the blood than when he’s just crying and he can’t explain why.

“Get out of here,” the nurse orders. “You’re not sleeping in the infirmary tonight.”

He swallows hard and leaves without talking back. That, at least, was a lesson he didn’t need to be taught when he got to the boys’ home. Some of his peers hadn’t understood the consequences of talking back, but Marcus was already intimately aware. He does wish they’d let him sleep in the infirmary, though. Davey O’Neil did not take kindly to the black eye Marcus gave him and is sure to retaliate tonight under cover of darkness.

As it turns out, Davey doesn’t wait for nighttime. He spots Marcus across the yard and comes running. Marcus takes off as fast as his legs can take him. He's horribly gangly, growing too fast for his coordination to catch up, and he’s always been a skinny, underfed little thing, so his fastest run is not terribly fast. But he _is_ the best tree climber in the entire home, thanks to all those excursions in Charnwood, so all he has to do is reach the tall willow at the edge of the orchard and he’ll be safe. From fists, anyway; they’ll throw things at him, but that’s fine. None of them can throw high enough to get him.

He makes it, just barely, and his long arms and legs help him scramble up the branches. He clings to the highest branch he can get to, panting, and waits for the rocks and bottles to start flying. He’s crying a bit already, even though he hasn’t taken his beating yet, because he’s so tired. He’s so tired of running and climbing and clawing at his own skin. He’s so tired of the other boys stealing his food and holding his head down under the water in the bath and punching his ribs as they walk by. He’s so tired of the teachers giving him dirty looks and telling him how bad he is when he’s trying so hard to be good like they want. He’s just tired.

“Oy, he’s crying again!” Davey O’Neil announces to the whole yard, and the laughter and jeers start up as usual. Marcus sniffles and releases one arm from its death-grip around the tree to swipe at his nose. He wishes he didn’t cry so much, but he can’t seem to help it. He cries about everything. He cries when his stomach aches with hunger and he cries when the other boys chase him and he even cries at good things, like the butterfly he saw emerge from the cocoon last month or the bird that landed on the branch he was hiding in and cocked its head at him in solidarity.

“Fairy Keane!” They start up the chant that’s followed Marcus since he got here. And they’re _right_ , is the worst part, Marcus _is_ a fairy. No matter how hard he tries not to, he always ends up thinking about the way the history teacher’s hair curls over his forehead and what it would be like to touch it. He doesn’t know how any of them found out. He hasn’t told a soul, not even God. Although He probably already knows, since He knows everything. Marcus thinks all this is probably punishment.

Marcus clings to his tree branch and wishes bitterly he could be someone else, _anyone_. He remembers the little girl with the kind mother in church and wishes he could be her, wishes he could have the kind of life with kisses and hugs and _parents,_ for God’s sake. Fat tears stream down his cheeks but he’s tired now, so he can’t wipe them away. If he lets go, he’ll fall. Maybe the drop would kill him. Maybe he should try it. But he’s too afraid it won’t, too afraid of what’ll happen once the other boys get hold of him on the ground and too afraid of what the headmaster will say when Marcus winds up in his office. So he clings, and he cries, and he thinks, as he’s often done over the years, _I wish I wasn’t me._

 

_iii._

 

“Oh, look at you, love,” the elderly woman coos. She lifts Marcus’s chin with her hand. “Skinny as an alley cat, ain’t you? Come in here and get something to eat.”

He glances over at Father Sean, who nods, and then follows her into the kitchen. This is the first time Marcus has been allowed into someone’s home to do an exorcism rather than the church basement. He’s fourteen and he’s already the best exorcist they have. This woman called them about her granddaughter, a girl just older than Marcus, who’s screaming in the barn right now while this woman wants Marcus to eat. He looks out the window.

“I should get back to work,” he says. “I’m not hungry.”

The woman clucks her tongue. “You’ve been out there a whole day already! Y’have to eat, don’t you?”

“But your granddaughter—” He starts. Her face drops, grief and pain filling her eyes.

“Yes,” she says quietly. “And I’m thankful to you for wanting to help her. But we can’t have you keeling over, can we? What good’ll that do?”

Marcus shrugs. “Haven’t ever fainted before.”

She looks into his face for a moment. “You do this a lot?”

Marcus looks back over his shoulder, wondering if Father Sean can hear their conversation. “Yes,” he finally says.

The woman still looks sad. “Bit young.”

“God picked me to do this job,” Marcus says, proudly enough that he’ll have to confess it and pay penance if Father Sean heard. He probably should confess it anyway, on his own, but he never remembers to confess his pride.

He’s always too busy holding back confessing his impure thoughts to worry about pride. He’s not stupid—he knows he can’t confess what he thinks about with his hand down his pants if he wants to keep doing the exorcisms. If they find out he ripped a picture of Julian Glover from a magazine in a shop and looks at it while he bites down on his pillow, they’ll send him back to the boys’ home faster than he can blink. During confession, Father Michael always asks what impure thoughts Marcus has while he abuses himself and Marcus always lies and talks about Sister Agatha’s breasts like all the other boys talk about when the lights go out. It isn’t that Marcus doesn’t appreciate Sister Agatha’s breasts, too, which is the most confusing part, but they just don’t hold his attention the way Father Anthony’s dimples do when he praises Marcus for remembering a Bible verse.

“Did He now?” The woman asks mildly, making Marcus jump a little. He’d been thinking about Father Anthony’s dimples and Sister Agatha's breasts again and now he’s blushing furiously.

“Yes,” Marcus says, lifting his chin defiantly. A lot of people think it’s ridiculous that Marcus, of all people, is allowed to do exorcisms, is _good_ at exorcisms. Marcus, with the scars on his arms and the way he draws instead of listening during Sunday school. Marcus, with the drunkard parents and already a kill on his hands. No one understands why Marcus is worthy enough for this job. Marcus doesn’t, either, but he stopped asking about it years ago. God _did_ choose him, let Marcus see Him, and that’s enough for Marcus. It doesn’t matter what anyone, not even the priests and the nuns or the auxiliary bishop, have to say about it.

“Does God picking you mean you get loved proper?” The woman asks. “Fed up and hugged goodnight?”

Marcus is suddenly speechless. Is this woman possessed as well? How could she know the kinds of thoughts Marcus has on his bitterest nights, after nightmares have left him terrified to go back to sleep? He shoves bread into his mouth, trying not to let his emotion show on his face. He knows he’s terrible at hiding his emotions, but he does always try. He pushes back from the table.

“I’ll go back to work now,” he mumbles.

“Thank you, dear,” she says. Her voice is sincere and grateful and Marcus aches, somewhere in his chest, because he imagines how she must love her granddaughter, how she must’ve doled out kisses easily and laughed at the silly songs her granddaughter would make up as a child.

Marcus blinks back tears as he crosses the garden to the barn. He’s going to walk into the murky half-light and get spat on, as always, and ignore the taunts of the devil, and he knows this is all he’s good for, all he _can_ do. He has his purpose, and he’s glad for it, but sometimes—sometimes his chest aches, is all. Sometimes he wishes someone would’ve kissed his scraped knees and called him sweet names and played pat-a-cake with him.

Marcus dashes a tear off his cheek and takes a deep breath. Then he pushes back the heavy barn door, and he goes back to work.

 

_iv._

 

“Tell me, Marcus, why did you become a priest?” Brother Simon prods. Marcus crosses his arms and looks out the window. He can see some of the other disgraced priests out working in the garden. Their recreation time. Marcus still isn’t allowed full recreation time, and if he was, he wouldn’t spend it in the garden. Grown men aren’t allowed to climb trees, least of all here, where he’s watched every minute of the day. Watched and judged.

They say there’s no judgment here. They say only God can judge. But Marcus knows they judge him plenty. Even the other priests, the ones here for sexual deviancy worse than Marcus’s sexual deviancy, avoid him. He is tainted, unclean. He has lived amongst demons and it’s left its mark on him. No one wants to speak to Marcus, and that’s just fine with him. He doesn’t want to speak with anyone else, either.

“Marcus,” Brother Simon says with a little sigh. “You’ve got to talk to me.”

“I became a priest because God called me,” Marcus says. He knows he sounds petulant, but he doesn’t care. If he doesn’t say something, Brother Simon will make another little mark in his notepad that means Marcus won’t be allowed into the common room for another day. Marcus never cares much for whatever vaguely religious movie is playing, but sometimes it’s nice to have something else to think about than the sound Gabriel’s neck made when it snapped.

He swallows down a too-familiar wave of nausea and rubs his temples. His head always aches these days, a combination of not sleeping and the bright white walls. He wonders if they do that on purpose, keeping the men off-balance and in pain to remember their own guilt. As if Marcus needs a reminder.

“God called you?” Brother Simon asks. He sounds just on the believing side of skeptical. If anyone else heard, Brother Simon could reasonably argue he’s just asking Marcus to explain. But Marcus hears the mocking in his voice. He knows no one believes him when he says that. No one believes God would reveal Himself to Marcus, of all people. No one ever has.

“Yes,” Marcus says shortly. “Aren’t we done here yet?”

Brother Simon makes a little _tsk_ sound. “Marcus, we’re here to help you,” he says condescendingly. “I can’t help you if you won’t share with me.”

“Share what?” Marcus finally snaps. “That I’ve spent more time with demons than human souls? That it’s what I deserve, being surrounded by the devil himself? That God abandoned me, left me broken and useless and dumped me here?”

He’s crying, of course, and he hates himself for it, hates that he’s giving Brother Simon what he wants, fodder for future “sessions.” Marcus digs the heels of his hands into his eyes and holds his breath, trying to stop the panic and terror rising in his chest. Everything is too bright, too stark, and it makes it hard to breathe, hard to feel his own heartbeat.

Sometimes he wonders if he’s dead, if this is hell. He’s stuck in an endless loop of remembering Gabriel and Mouse and being forced to talk to Brother Simon and listening to other priests sniveling about fucking married women in their congregation because they just couldn’t stop themselves and it all makes him want to scream. Sometimes he catches himself picking at his skin, the way he did as a child, and if he’s not careful they’ll start drugging him again. _Medicating_ , they call it, but it’s drugging. The first two weeks he was here, they kept him sluggish and foggy, eyes half-closed with sedation, and he’d hated it even more than this feeling of futility he has now.

“You believe you deserve to be surrounded by the devil?” Brother Simon asks, and Marcus shudders all over at the faint laughter in his voice. He loathes Brother Simon in a way that is decidedly un-priestly and he can’t make himself stop, can’t even make himself feel guilty about it because Marcus has never been a good priest anyway.

“I want to leave,” Marcus says with numb lips. “I want to go back to my room.”

“We’re not done here,” Brother Simon responds, all false apology, and Marcus can’t take anymore and he gets up and flees, runs from the room like he’s a child at the boys’ home again and Davey O’Neil is chasing him. He’ll be punished for this, forced to sit through another talk with he director about his sins and the healing process, but it doesn’t matter. He has to run, has to move, or he’s going to shatter into a million pieces.

He bursts through the doors and runs outside even though he’s not allowed, runs until his lungs are burning and then collapses right there in the grass. He holds his head in his hands and clutches at the short hair that’s left and clenches every muscle in his body to keep from screaming out loud and thinks, _I want to die to get away from this place_. It’s another sin, thinking this way, but the thought won’t leave his mind. He wishes he were anywhere else, wishes he were any _one_ else, and he scratches himself until he draws blood.

 

_v._

 

Peter is cradling his head, the rasp of his beard against Marcus’s skin a dizzying, delicious burn, and Marcus hasn’t had a drink in days but he’s drunk off this, off the feeling of Peter’s lips against his. He wants to stay here, wants to get wrapped up in Peter and wake up to sunlight and make love to the rhythm of the waves gently rocking Peter’s boat.

But.

But the Kim house, and the demons on the island, and the kids in danger, and Marcus himself—all adding up to the undeniable proof that Marcus has to leave. He pulls back from Peter, and Peter doesn’t get mad even when Marcus is cryptic and makes a spectacle of himself. Marcus leaves Peter and imagines, for a moment, what it would be like to leave his life behind, never see another demon and instead sail around with Peter and eat fresh fish and grow a full beard of his own.

He imagines what it would be like if he had been born to other parents, if his life had gone differently. Maybe Marcus would’ve been an artist—he’s used to starving, anyway, so it could have worked out—and he’d come to the island for inspiration. Maybe he would’ve met Peter in the pub, and their eyes would’ve met across the bar. He would’ve gone home with Peter on the first night and Peter would’ve made him breakfast in the morning and Marcus would’ve extended his trip, one week after another after another, until he was all but moved into Peter’s house. They would’ve fought over silly things like Peter spending too much time on his boat and Marcus getting lost in his head as he drew and they would’ve made up easily with kisses and sex and chocolates. Peter would scold him for smoking but always make sure Marcus had his favorite clove cigarettes in supply.

Marcus’s chest aches. He has his purpose back, and he can’t deny the trust in Harper’s eyes helps him remember why doing this job has always filled him with such righteous drive. But he wants so badly, just now, to be someone else. To be the artist who stumbled upon Peter in the pub. To be the man who could leave exorcisms behind and run off with Peter. To be the man who could wake up to Peter’s face every morning and not think about anything else, not worry what would be hidden behind those eyes someday, not have nightmares about the skin rending before his eyes and the teeth crumbling. To be the kind of man who could love Peter and be loved.

“Poor Peter,” the demon in Andy Kim sneers. “Could’ve been so normal together.”

And Marcus has to swallow, has to look away for a moment, because that’s what he wishes. He wishes fervently he could be normal with Peter. But he pushes the wish away, buries the ache under his ribs and under his purpose. He isn’t that man. He never will be. He is the man he is. So he ignores the flutter of pain in his throat and gets back to work.

 

_+1_

 

Marcus wakes up early. He’s never been a deep sleeper; even as a child, he slept lightly in case he needed to run from his father or the other boys in the home or to Father Sean’s call. The sun is streaming through the window and kissing Marcus’s cheeks to wake him. He stretches in the warmth, feet brushing against Tomas’s bare legs beside him.

Marcus rolls over, closer to Tomas, and watches him sleep for a moment. His long eyelashes fan across his cheeks and the sunbeams on his face bathe him in an ethereal morning light. Marcus commits it to memory so he can draw it later. Tomas looks holy. Angelic. Marcus would draw it right now with this perfect Tomas as his model, but that would mean moving from Tomas’s side and Marcus is unwilling to even consider that right now.

Marcus fits himself against Tomas’s side, wraps an arm around Tomas’s waist and buries his face in the crook of Tomas’s neck. Tomas is sweating a bit in his sleep, like he always does no matter the temperature and the fact that when awake he is almost always cold, and his curls are getting long and unruly because he needs a haircut. His mouth is open slightly and he’s drooling.

Marcus loves him so much it almost hurts.

Marcus dozes a little, overly warm with the sun streaming directly on them and Tomas’s body heat but unwilling to move away. He can’t go back to full sleep, never can after he wakes up, but they have no reason for an early start and Marcus basks in the laziness of it, the mundane domesticity. He noses at the hair curling over Tomas’s ear and traces light patterns into Tomas’s hip.

Tomas finally wakes up about an hour later. He probably would’ve slept longer without Marcus touching him, but Marcus can’t help himself. Tomas wakes up slowly, and Marcus relishes it. He loves when Tomas wakes up naturally instead of snapping alert full of nightmares and panic. Tomas burrows closer to Marcus, smiling without opening his eyes.

“Good morning,” he rumbles, voice raspy with sleep, and Marcus almost can’t breathe with the comfort and love rising in his chest.

“Good morning,” he whispers back.

Tomas cracks an eye open. “Okay?” He checks, concerned. It’s still amazing to Marcus that Tomas can hear him whisper two words and catch the emotion there. More amazing still that Tomas _cares_ what emotion is in those two words and wants to be sure of Marcus’s mental state.

Marcus nods, unable to speak. He feels like they’re stealing this secret moment, like they’re in a world of their own where nothing and no one can reach them. He’s afraid of breaking the spell. He raises himself up on his elbow and leans over to kiss Tomas. Tomas raises a hand to rest against Marcus’s cheek and Marcus closes his eyes.

“Marcus,” Tomas says against his lips. “What is it? Are you okay?”

“More than,” Marcus assures him. He pulls back to study Tomas’s face. Tomas keeps his hand on Marcus’s cheek, brushing his thumb gently across Marcus’s cheekbone. His other hand finds Marcus’s and laces their fingers together. Tomas looks gently worried, unsure what’s going on in Marcus’s head but ready to patiently wait to find out. Though not _too_ patiently, because patience is a virtue Tomas has never been able to find much reserve within himself.

Marcus can’t explain why he’s so emotional this morning. He just knows having Tomas like this, morning after morning, has been doing something to him for months. It’s been transforming him, somehow; his rough edges are softer, worn down with happiness. He’s more likely to smile at strangers now instead of suspiciously narrowing his eyes at anyone who looks his way. He doesn’t look over his shoulders all the time anymore, doesn’t see demons behind his eyelids every time he closes his eyes. Tomas has made it some kind of life goal to convince Marcus exorcisms are not the only thing he's good for. He drags Marcus around to community centers to take art classes, cooking classes, even origami. He tries to help Marcus find gentle work for his hands instead of the holy fire he used to bring down with them. Marcus can't quite say he agrees, yet, that he has other talents, other uses, but he can honestly say he's starting to warm to the idea.

“I’m happy,” Marcus whispers. He lies down with his head against Tomas’s chest and Tomas moves the hand from Marcus’s cheek to his head, brushing lightly through the short hair there. He scratches gently at the base of Marcus’s neck and Marcus could purr with the contentment he feels.

“Good,” Tomas says. “That’s all I want.”

“You’re happy, too, right?” Marcus checks. He asks some variation of that question a hundred times each day. He’s afraid Tomas is going to tire of the question even before he tires of Marcus, but there’s something in Marcus that can’t rest unless he’s sure Tomas is still happy with this, with him.

It probably isn’t attractive, this insecurity. Another thing to add to Marcus’s tally, with his natural stray-cat thinness and scars and harsh lines on his face from too many years of too-taxing work. He knows he doesn’t fit with Tomas’s beauty, knows if people on the street pick out their relationship it leaves them wondering, and if he thinks on it too long it makes him twitch, makes his stomach hurt with that familiar anxiety. Tomas could have anyone, and sometimes it makes Marcus feel smug but usually it leaves him wondering what on Earth Tomas is still doing here.

Tomas sighs a little. It’s not an annoyed huff, but Marcus still tenses at the sound of it. Tomas pushes at Marcus’s shoulder, making him get off Tomas’s chest and hover over Tomas on his elbows, and he lets go of Marcus’s hand to cradle Marcus’s face with both hands.

“Marcus,” he says. He smiles, settling Marcus’s chest immediately, and lifts his head to kiss Marcus. “I have never in my life been happier than I am with you.”

Marcus rests back on Tomas’s chest again, recapturing his hand. Tomas sweeps a hand up and down Marcus’s back, soothing, and Marcus presses closer to him.

“Are we going to your sister’s for dinner tonight?” Marcus asks. If not, they’ll need to go grocery shopping. They’re both awful at remembering to buy food after living on the road. Marcus thinks that responsibility should fall more on Tomas, since he’s had by far the more normal life of the two of them, but Tomas went from living with his grandmother to living near enough to his sister and being invited to parishioners homes for dinner often enough that he forgets about buying food, too.

“Yeah,” Tomas says. “Luis is cooking again.”

Marcus laughs quietly. “Oh, joy.” Luis is thirteen and has decided he wants to be a chef. Secretly, Marcus thinks he’s got a long way to go.

Tomas jostles him gently. “You say that like you’re not going to eat every single thing he puts on your plate, no matter what.”

“Waste not, want not,” Marcus shoots back.

“No.” Tomas kisses the top of Marcus’s head and Marcus can feel the curve of his smile. “You’re just a softy,” he says. It could be considered an accusation, but his voice is so affectionate it’s hard to think of it that way.

“Am I?” Marcus says, rolling his hips down. Tomas bursts out with a laugh and holds Marcus in place, hands on Marcus’s hips.

“Mmm, buenos días, señor.” He says it with a leer that leaves Marcus snorting with laughter. Marcus will admit to a certain amount of helplessness when Tomas speaks Spanish in bed, especially when it’s because he’s babbling in ecstasy, but neither of them have quite mastered innuendo after their lifetimes of repressing it. It leads to ridiculous attempts like this.

“That’s a very formal greeting,” Marcus teases. “Would’ve thought you two would be on more familiar terms by now.”

Tomas is shaking with breathless laughter and it’s clogging Marcus’s throat with emotion again. He still can’t believe he gets this. He gets to wake up to Tomas every morning—or in the middle of the night, when either or both of them have nightmares—and they can tease each other and laugh and cuddle together like nothing else is important.

“Hey,” Tomas says softly. “Where’d you go?” He asks that sometimes, when Marcus is lost in his thoughts, like Marcus actually left. Like Marcus _could_ leave. Marcus left him once, and it didn’t go well. He doesn’t intend to ever do that again.

“Nowhere,” Marcus promises, squeezing Tomas’s arm. “I won’t ever go anywhere.”

It’s a sharp turnaround from their jokes and laughter, but Tomas doesn’t seem to mind. He wraps his arms more securely around Marcus.

“That’s good,” he murmurs. “I’m glad. I wouldn’t want you to go anywhere.”

They lie quietly again, holding onto one another. Marcus traces around the shell of Tomas’s ear, tickling him lightly to make him squirm.

“What are you thinking about?” Tomas asks drowsily. Marcus breathes him in, feels the solid shape of him under Marcus’s hands, and he smiles into Tomas’s neck.

“I’m very glad this is my life,” Marcus whispers. “I’m grateful. Grateful to be me. I love you.”

Tomas makes a soft little sound and presses kisses against the top of Marcus’s head. He knows enough about Marcus’s self-loathing to know what a big thing that is.

“I’m very grateful you’re you, too,” Tomas says. He rests his cheek against Marcus’s head and squeezes him. “And I love you. So much.”

Marcus doesn’t know when those words from Tomas will stop making his heart soar. Maybe never. The smile that takes over his face is immediate. He presses a kiss to Tomas’s shoulder and thinks, _I am the luckiest man alive_. Just now, even if it’s just for a moment, Marcus would not trade this life for anything in the world.

**Author's Note:**

> [my tumblr](http://biblionerd07.tumblr.com)


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